


Bloodlust drabbles

by tigriswolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Related, Episode: s02e03 Bloodlust, Gen, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 11:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10535544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: 4 drabbles written immediately after Bloodlust aired.





	1. Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Hunter  
> Fandom: SN  
> Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.  
> Warnings: spoilers for "Bloodlust"  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Wordcount: 380  
> Point of view: second  
> Notes: I wrote this after seeing the episode only once. It doesn’t chronologically follow the order from the episode, but they all still happen.

You realize your mistake the instant the knife touches his throat.

You’ve heard rumors of these boys, Winchester’s sons. You even met Winchester once—he frightened you. He was dangerous, a true predator—and the stories say his sons are quickly following in his footsteps.

But it’s been years since you spoke to Winchester and the memories have faded. You’ve forgotten most everything except the gruff tone of his voice and the glint of his dark brown eyes.

Neither of his sons, you notice, have his eyes.

You watched them in the bar and you recognized them for what they are: like calls to like, after all. And they are good, the best you’ve seen since their father. The younger, though… something about him makes you wary.

And the elder—oh, yes, like calls to like. He loves the hunt, loves to kill, and when he killed that vampire—his father flashed through your mind and a thrill of fear shot up your spine.

If you could get him away from Sammy, he’d become the best, you’ve no doubt of that. Because Sam—he sees all sorts of shades of gray, and hunters _can’t_ afford that. And he’s showing them to Dean.

So you cut Sam’s arm and drop the blood on the bitch’s face, and looking at Dean, you see you’ve completely fucked up.

His face… it’s blanker than when he killed the vampire. But his eyes… are so cold you shiver. His hands are steady on the gun.

You tell him that if you’d wanted Sam dead he’d be on the floor already, and his eyes darken.

And Winchester, you realize, was _nowhere_ near as terrifying as his son.

In that instant, you know he wants to kill you. Wants to tear out your throat, carve out your heart, paint the walls ruby with your blood.

But he tries talking you down, tells you to let the bitch go, that she doesn’t need to die. He mentions your sister, your baby sister, and you snarl the rest of the story.

And you’d have sworn his eyes couldn’t freeze anymore but they _do_.

Dean Winchester is the scariest fucking bastard you’ve ever known.

And you really grabbed the lion by the tail when you so much as breathed in Sammy’s direction.


	2. Hunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Hunted  
> Fandom: SN  
> Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.  
> Warnings: spoilers for "Bloodlust"  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Pairings: none  
> Wordcount: 1180  
> Point of view: third

She hasn’t drunk human blood in over a century. She remembers its full, rich taste, the thick texture sliding down her throat; she recalls with longing the scent, the tangy, copper smell of life. She even remembers the feel of it, blood dribbling between her fingers as she played with the humans. And the sight—oh, the sight of the crimson blood of humanity! She could wax poetic about it for years.

But she has restraint and she learned, and she commands her pack to eat anything else.

And for a hundred years, so it was. She did not hunt humans, so they did not hunt her. Her pack developed jobs, lived in the human world. They drank cattle blood and they sampled human food, and if they weren’t as strong as other vampires, at least they went unhunted.

But then a hunter started killing them. For no reason she could see, he tracked and murdered them. No one of her pack had sampled humans in over a hundred years!

And that, she knew, was the only reason he succeeded. They were weak, so weak—and he killed Christina. He killed William.

She had heard whispers on the night air of a hunter gone mad. One who killed and killed, for no reason other than he could. He followed packs from nest to nest, picked them off one by one. Rumors of his reasons circulated from nest to nest, but none knew the truth.

Not even a thousand vampires remained in North America and the hunters were slowly lessening the number. Some, she knew, believed them already extinct.

Her pack once had fifteen members. After she decreed no human blood, three ran at noon, together. And then over the course of a hundred years, the pack was whittled down to eight: Christina, Conrad, Eli, William, Isaac, Martin, Jocelyn, and her.

Then the hunter came and they were down to six.

She told Isaac, Martin, Jocelyn, Conrad, and Eli to lay low, to call in sick, to not leave their homes. Conrad told her he had to go to work, so with a heavy heart she sent him off. They’d lived in the town for twenty years and she knew it was time to move on. She catalogued all they’d accumulated, deciding what to keep, when Eli told her of Conrad’s murder.

He and Isaac had followed the killers—three hunters—to a bar. Isaac was sticking to the shadows, still there.

Eli begged her to allow a kill but she commanded they wait and watch. “If they separate,” she said, “pick one. Bring him here. Use all caution.”

When they brought in the hunter, he was younger than she’d expected. Also, he seemed unafraid—no, more than that. He seemed weary, lost. But he had bravado and played a good game. She looked into his eyes and knew this was one hunter who could be trusted.

It had been her gift in life, the ability to look into souls. With death, it remained. So she had Eli and Isaac return him to his room, her show of faith.

She hasn’t drunk human blood in over a century. She’s wanted to, longed for it, even dreamt of it sliding down her throat, sating her, returning her to full strength.

And now the murdering hunter, the mad hunter, is tormenting her with the younger one’s blood. She remembers the taste, and the scent is overpowering.

Human blood, life blood, _blood_ ….

Over a hundred years ago, she defeated the lust. She no longer needs human blood and she knows it. The mad hunter is trying to prove her to be a beast and the younger knows she is not.

She forces her teeth back and turns her head. “No,” she whimpers. “No.”

The mad hunter’s disbelief is a tangible feeling and the younger’s pride for her overcomes the scent of his blood.

They speak, the younger and the other, but she’s too far gone to understand. He lifts her, easier than she lifted that box what feels like a lifetime ago. She is so weak. He carries her out of the house and sets her on the ground, looks over her wounds.

She hasn’t drunk human blood in over a century.

He places his arm to her lips and says, “Drink. You need it. It’s okay.”

She looks up into his green eyes, full of kindness and life and an earnestness she hasn’t seen in longer than she can remember.

“No.” It’s the hardest thing she’s ever done. “ _No_.”

He lowers his arm and smiles. “Okay, Lenore,” he says, and then stands. “I’m going to our car, alright? We have towels and water. I’ll clean you up a little, find you some blood.”

She settles onto her back and stares at the sky. It seems ages later when he returns and she doesn’t move. He gently presses a towel to her wounds, sloshes water into them. She hears thuds and groans from the house and almost grins.

The other hunter. This one’s brother. Danger.

The mad hunter hadn’t a chance.

Lenore feels Eli and the others approaching. She shifts her head, catches the hunter’s eye. “My pack is coming,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

He licks his lips and glances toward the door.

“They won’t attack you,” she tells him, so quietly even she can barely hear it. He scoffs and raises the bottle of water to her lips. She sips and he slumps down next to her, waiting for the pack.

Isaac and Martin will be furious. Jocelyn will be barely restrained from entering the house and killing the mad hunter. Eli… well, Lenore remembers the brother’s face when the mad one placed the knife to the younger’s throat.

Eli strides out of the darkness, face full of fire. It hurts but she raises her arm—“Don’t.” Eli glares at the hunter and kneels beside her, lightly traces her jaw.

“What happened?” he snarls, eyes gentle and furious.

“Gordon,” the hunter says. “Dean and I barely got here in time.”

The rest of the pack melts into sight and Jocelyn growls, lunging forward to attack the hunter. Eli jumps to meet her, holding her back, and Isaac takes Eli’s place.

“She needs blood,” Isaac says, looking up at the hunter. Lenore follows his eyes and shakes her head.

“He offered,” she tells her pack, proud of the hunter. “I refused.”

Jocelyn calms at the words and Eli lets her go; she sinks to the ground besides Lenore and brushes some of the hair off her face. “How bad?” she whispers.

Lenore tries another smile but it falls from her face. “I’ll heal,” she answers.

The hunter stands and world slowly lightens around them. The sun touches her face and Eli picks her up, smoothly and gently. “We have her,” he tells the hunter. “Thank you for proving her right.”

The hunter nods and they leave, slipping away to the woods. She glances back for an instant and the sun bathes him in light. He smiles and turns, stepping up the stairs and returning to the house.


	3. Brotherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Brotherhood  
> Fandom: "Supernatural"  
> Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.  
> Warnings: spoilers for "Bloodlust"  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Wordcount: 530  
> Point of view: second

For the first time in your life, you look at him and do not recognize him. You do not know him. You have no idea what he’ll do. 

Blood splatters on his face and he scares you. This is your brother the hunter, your brother the killer, the dangerous man others see—but never before have you gazed upon him in quite this way. Never before have you seen him from the outside; always, you’ve been with him, sheltered from the storm.

But now your eyes are open. Now you see. His rage and pain have always been leashed, controlled. But now he’s floundering, lost in a sea of uncertainty and despair.

You and Dad were his world. And now half the foundation of his life is gone, stolen from beneath him. Now he’s lashing out, channeling everything into killing, into making something _pay_.

For the first time, perhaps, you see _him_. He is not just your big brother, the boy who held you on his lap and hugged you when you skinned your knee, the boy who played basketball with you and let you win, the man who let you go when you said it was time—he is not just your big brother. He is Dad’s weapon, Dad’s soldier—and Dad is _gone_.

For twenty-three years you have been blind. But now you see.

Blood splatters on his face and he looks over, expression weary, eyes masked. You don’t have the words to make anything better so you say nothing.

You see him now. Your eyes are open.

Blood splatters on his face and you _are_ frightened. But not _of_ him, not of him and never again _of_ him. You are terrified he’ll lose his way and be taken from you like everyone else.

He meets your gaze, face weary and eyes hard, daring you to speak. And you resolve with everything in you that you will grab hold of him and never let go.

.

The knife is cold on your throat, softly nicking the skin. One small twist of the wrist and you are dead.

He watches, eyes full of fire, and _this_ is the man who would kill or die for you. This is the man who would hurt himself before hurting you, and he will never forgive himself for that punch, even though you already have.

You can imagine his actions if Walker kills you, or even lets Lenore touch you. You can imagine it well, as if it’s a vision of what is to come.

His eyes never waver from Walker. His hands never tremble or shake. The gun is steady, sure, and you know he would pull the trigger in less than an aborted heartbeat if he could be sure Walker wouldn’t spasm and tear your throat wide open.

And Lenore says no. She forces back her fangs, turns her face away, and says no.

Dean tells you to get her out of there and you almost feel sorry for Walker. But you remember the cold kiss of the blade and your brother’s eyes—and with a gasping vampire in your arms, pity is far from your mind.


	4. Brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Brother  
> Fandom: "Supernatural"  
> Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.  
> Warnings: takes place during "Bloodlust"  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Wordcount: 260  
> Point of view: second

He wouldn’t be the first man you’ve killed. 

And, if you pull the trigger, he won’t be the last.

You’ve come terms with it. Came to terms with your morals and your stand long ago, when you first realized humans could be just as evil as anything else.

Sam’s finally learning that, and you hate it. Hate that, one day, the positions will be reversed and he’ll have to knowingly pick.

You or someone else, someone innocent or guilty, and it won’t matter which. It’ll destroy parts of that little boy you still see in him, making that choice.

But he’ll make it. Without blinking, without hesitation. You know he’ll make it and if he’ll regret, he won’t let it show.

That decision in Nebraska never bothered him as much as it bothered you.

It’s really simple, when it’s all boiled down. Dad may not have intended things to be quite this way, but by the time he noticed it was too late.

It’d been too late since you were four.

And it seems no one else is quick enough to learn.

He is yours. And you are his. Intertwined, now, too deep to ever be undone. He’s back, forever, and you’ll do anything to keep him safe.

Anything. Everything.

From the moment he pointed that knife at Sammy, he’d made your shit-list. From the moment he put that damned knife to Sammy’s neck, you knew you’d feel less guilt than you felt for anything you’d ever killed before.

And he says Sammy would already be on the floor.


End file.
